Supergroup Blues (Part 3--yes, it's done)

Velvet Revolver: Now Three-Fifths Shirtless!

So, where was I?

I jammed up to use the restroom one more time before the band came on and on the way back, I thought I'd look for my buddy Mark who I'd tried to call earlier down in the catacombs. We'd compared notes as to our seats earlier in the week, so I knew where to look for him. As I was coming down the stairs in his section, he happened to be coming up the same stairway. "Hey you miserable fuck, watch where you're going", I said. He looked up with a shocked look on his face until he recognized me. "Where is everybody?", he asked waving his arms around the empty arena. He was buzzing from all the drinking in the parking lot.

"I have no fucking idea", I replied. "It's like something out of the Twilight Zone".

He was still looking around at the vacant seats and then looked at me suddenly. "Hey, you wanna beer?"

I pointed to my now quarter-full cup. "Too late man, you missed last call", I told him.

"Damn", he said. "Aw, it's probably for the best. As it is, tomorrow's gonna suck".

I shook his hand and headed the rest of the way down the steps to the floor. I stepped up next to Chris and Justin and the lights went down.

Velvet Revolver came out blasting away as expected with raucous energy and the crowd, as paltry as it was, roared with approval. I noticed the sound was really balanced on the high end and it was piercing. I glanced over my shoulder to see, as I expected, the sound guys frantically twiddling knobs and sliding faders up and down. They'll fix this in no time, I thought, and I patiently waited while settling in with the band.

All sound problems aside, I was impressed with Velvet Revolver's sheer power. Matt Sorum (shirted) played his kit like an old pro with not a ton of flash, but the mics were set just right and every kick of the bass drum was felt against my chest. I like that feeling; it takes me back to the arena shows of my high school days. But in the end, his playing wasn't that exciting to watch, so I fixed my sights on the other players at various intervals.

In addition to the very high profile playing of Slash, the band features a second guitarist by the name of Dave Kushner (shirted). I only know his name after reading an online profile and apparently he has an indie rock pedigree that is respected by rock snobs everywhere. He didn't impress me other than being an adequate rhythm player. To me, he looked like a beefier Edge from U2 and rocked out by bending backward and forward at the waist and bobbing his head wildly. But he never moved his feet. I suspected that Duff McKagan nailed Kushner's feet to the stage right before the first note.

I say that because McKagan (shirtless) apparently thought we all paid to see him play bass front and center all night. At center stage, there was a small riser that was used--rightfully so--by vocalist Scott Weiland from time to time. Like a little kid, McKagan would run over to and jump up on the podium whenever Weiland vacated the spot. Of course, he would pose for the crowd and they would cheer like rock and roll cattle do when prompted by such a move. He did this over and over again and I felt like screaming at him to get down just as I do with my new puppy when she tries to climb the barbeque. Bad Duff! This is not The Duff McKagan Experience. You are the bass player! Get down from there!

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Guns and Roses hit it big when I was a little sick of hard rock and I got into fusion and progressive music. I was really into heavy metal in high school (from 81-85), witnessing the end of the '70s masters like Sabbath and Zep and riding the tide of the New Wave Of British Heavy Metal. In the summer of 1986, a friend of a friend who played bass in a few bands around town and I were sitting in my car outside the old Tower Records and he wanted to play me something. He handed me the cassette case to Poison's Look What The Cat Dragged In. He popped in the tape and said over the hiss before the Dolby kicked in, "The type of stuff these guys do is what I'm really into now". I recall thinking that I had always liked this guy's taste before as it usually matched mine closely, but as the tape quieted slightly and then the first song started, I looked down at the picture on the cover. "These guys are fags", I cried. Thus began my hatred for Hair Bands and what they did to my precious metal.

So, when GNR burst on the scene a few years later, I was in my jazz fusion snobbery mode and dismissed them as just another hair band. Although, I must admit that after about 6 listenings of Welcome To The Jungle, I bought the Appetite For Destruction cassette and cranked it up like everyone else. It still stands today as one of the best hard rock albums of all time and certainly one of the greatest debut albums of any genre. I still didn't see anything outstanding about Slash's playing other than a distinct tone and great riffs. I didn't see him as a guitar hero like Jimmy Page or Angus Young. I liked the album, but never considered myself of big fan of Guns 'N' Roses. But a fraction of a generation behind me did. Slash was/is their Hendrix.

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So now I watched Slash (shirtless) as he hid beneath his trademark mane of bushy black hair, boldly leading Kushner through the strong tunes from the Contraband album. I remarked to Chris that the sound still wasn't so good and he nodded with a frown. But the energy was certainly there and Slash's sound and signature tone were clear enough to recognize. His solos were sharp and clean, bristling with a smooth touch that I was surprised to detect. This guy is good, I thought. The crowd loved every note, of course, and it was then that I realized that even back in the late '80s and early '90s, I had become old before my time when I dismissed Slash and GNR so easily.

Turning my attention to Scott Weiland (shirtless, for the trifecta) supplied me with my entertainment dollar's worth for the night. Writhing like a serpent onstage, he commanded attention and got it. He looked very thin but muscular; all right angles and sharp edges. I'd seen him in his early days when he looked like a bloated young man not quite comfortable with the fact that his teenage metabolism was long gone. Now, after God only knows how many rehab stints, Weiland's image is that of Heroin Chic meets Gold's Gym.

Weiland used all the tricks in the book during the show. He used a bullhorn, strode around the stage to address both sides of the arena, and employed my favorite move, putting one foot on a monitor and leaning out over the audience. I think the performer sees themselves as very cool, and I guess it is a classic rock and roll pose, but they kind of look like Captain Morgan on the rum bottle.

More than once, I leaned over to yell into Chris' ear to comment. "I love this guy", I screamed. "He's such a fucking rock star"! Indeed, Scott Weiland embodies the rock star in all of us as we air guitar in the living room or sing into a wooden spoon in the kitchen. I was a little jealous that he gets to do all those moves and not be embarrassed if anyone catches him in the act. If anyone wants to question his rock star status, just remember that he escaped a rehab clinic by hopping a fence in his pajamas. I just know in my heart that he's thrown a television out of a hotel window just to keep the flame alive. God bless Scott Weiland.

Sadly though, the sound never improved and the massive crowd I imagined never materialized. I kept looking at the soundboard operators just to see them standing with their arms crossed, apparently happy with the sound coming out over the heads in front of them. Then I'd look up at the seats of the arena and do a 360 degree slow turn. More empty seats than bodies. I still can't figure out what went wrong with ticket sales for this show. Apathy in Fresno is now an epidemic and it is obvious that we aren't taking the right drugs for the ailment.

The band plowed through their album tunes, throwing in GNR and STP songs here and there. I expected as much, but there were a couple of surprises with Mr. Brownstone and It's So Easy popping up from the GNR catalog instead of maybe some more obvious choices. I was pleasantly surprised that Velvet Revolver didn't completely shoot for the lowest common denominator. I also appreciated the fact that there were no signs from the band that they were playing a half-full house. They seemed to play all out to me. I used to think that looking out at empty seats would take the steam out of you as a performer, but I thought twice about that after seeing some bands play stellar shows to literally a handful of people. I suppose now that if a performer were to see just a few fans out there, they might think to themselves that while it's not a huge crowd, the people that are there really want to be there. They are probably true fans and they made the effort to be there that night and deserve no less that the packed houses in the major markets. But then again, maybe these musicians are just all fucked up on Jack Daniels and horse tranquilizers. Seeing past the first two rows might be asking too much.

After the show, Chris drove me back to the restaurant so I could pick up my truck. I said goodbye and started towards the freeway for the short drive home. I was pretty tired and my ears were already ringing (another throwback to my high school days). I listened to some sports talk radio turned way low and put the truck on auto-pilot. When I pulled into my garage and put the key in the door, I looked back at the truck realizing that I'd be starting it up again to go to work in about four hours.

I tried to be quiet as I entered the bedroom but my wife is a light sleeper. She asked how I was doing.

I sighed and whispered, "Tomorrow's gonna suck".